old-fashioned blue-and-white mug, full of homebrewed.

"Toast a bit o' hard brade," said Nanny, "an' put it into't."

I did so.

The old woman put the kettle on, and scaled the fire; and then,
settling herself in her chair again, she began to re-arrange her
knitting-needles. Seeing that I liked my sops, she said, "Reitch some
moor cake-brade. Jenny'll toast it for yo."

I thanked her, and reached down another piece; which Jenny held to the
fire on a fork. And then we were silent for a minute or so.

"I'll tell yo what," said Nanny, "some folk's o'th luck i'th world."

"What's up now, Nanny?" replied I.

"They say'n that Owd Bill, at Fo' Edge, has had a dowter wed, an' a
cow cauve't, an a mare foal't o' i' one day. Dun yo co' that nought?"

Before I could reply, the sound of approaching footsteps came upon our
ears. Then, they stopt, a few yards off; and a clear voice trolled out a
snatch of country song:--


"Owd shoon an' stockins,
An' slippers at's made o' red leather!
Come, Betty, wi' me,
Let's shap to agree,